


The Beginning of Something Good

by Anonymous_Astronaut



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Beginnings, Dontneedavalentine2021, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Spy has gay thoughts, Target Practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29234799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Astronaut/pseuds/Anonymous_Astronaut
Summary: A lil spy/sniper fic for dontneedadispenser‘s Valentine’s Week event! The prompt: “beginning”
Relationships: Sniper/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	The Beginning of Something Good

Spy was incredibly good at his job. He could perform complex evasive and offensive maneuvers flawlessly, even in high-stress situations, and mercilessly fool the enemy with his disguises and unequivocal impressions. He could capture intelligence and disable equipment with laughable ease.

But he was a _terrible_ shot.

He was standing out in the hot open air of the base shooting range, loading his revolver for what felt like the millionth time. He’d started early that morning in an attempt to escape the midday heat (and the eyes of his teammates), but it was nearly noon and he’d barely managed to land any shots. Spy’s suit jacket hung limp on a fence post, he’d rolled up his sleeves to the elbows and removed his gloves. It was simply too hot not too.

He could feel the sun baking his balaclava against his skin as well, but it would take a lot more than a hot day to make him remove that.

Spy straightened his back, held up his revolver and grit his teeth, pressing himself to go on. He _had_ to get this right, and practice was the only way he was ever going to get better.

He took another six shots, emptying his magazine. One of the bullets clipped the shoulder of his wooden, vaguely humanoid target, but the rest were lost to the trees behind. He sighed and lowered the gun.

Why was this so difficult? It was the most straightforward part of his job, there were no subtitles or complicated techniques required, yet he could hardly manage to hit an immobile piece of plywood let alone an actual living person.

Spy heard footsteps approaching the arena and turned to spot the team Sniper entering the firing range. The tall, lanky man ambled by, nodding a brief hat-tip of acknowledgment as he passed, walking down a few sections to leave a good distance between him and the Spy. He had his bow in hand and was carrying two quivers full of arrows.

Spy new for a fact that Sniper had gotten two new cases of arrows the day before. It was the monthly arrival of the Mann Co supply crate, and almost everyone had received some new toy to play with. But everything was still packed away, these had to be Sniper’s old arrows. Spy wondered idly why the man would bother using them; a few looked bent and some were missing feathers.

Spy brought his attention back to his own target, loading his handgun again and holding it up to stare down the sights. Now that someone else was here, he found it even harder to concentrate on the wooden figure. He was not a particularly self-conscious person, in fact he prided himself on high confidence, but there were pathetically few bullet holes in his target and he felt embarrassment crawl up his neck at the thought of someone witnessing first hand just how bad he was with a gun.

Nevertheless, he swallowed his pride and took the six shots.

Not a single one hit.

He peaked sideways at the Sniper to see if he was laughing or staring, but the marksman appeared to be in his own world. The Sniper took no note of Spy’s shortcomings, taking the time instead to string his bow and test the tension a few times, nodding to himself.

Spy hadn’t paid much attention to the marksmen since he’d joined this team. Spy was still fairly new here, but out of all his teammates Sniper was the one he knew the least. Sure he found the tall quiet man intriguing, but figuring him out was a rainy day project he’d just never gotten to. Sniper kept to himself, so Spy hadn’t seen him as a priority for deciphering. 

But the Australian looked so comfortable here with his bow, immersed in his element, Spy just couldn’t take his eyes off him. He was used Sniper looking uncomfortable in... well _any_ setting really, except maybe on field. Even then, it wasn’t often he got to see the marksmen in action.

When Sniper looked satisfied with his bow, he turned and walked away from the targets. He ventured all the way to the outer wall surrounding the target range, a good forty five feet from where a shooter was _supposed_ to stand to fire. His arrow flashed from the quiver and hooked onto the string faster than the human eye could track. He drew it back and released with the practiced ease of a master, barely taking the time to aim.

The arrow buried itself dead into the center of a plywood cutout’s forehead all the way across the range.

Sniper began walking in a steady parallel line to the targets, shooting as he went. Each target was hit squarely in the third eye as he passed. When he ran out of targets at the end of the arena, he didn’t stop. Instead he simply turned and came back down along the line of his previous shots, so unbelievably precise he split almost every arrow down the stem on the way back. He had the surefooted gait of a mountain goat, and no need to glance down as he paced.

Spy stared blatantly as the marksman emptied his entire quiver without missing a single shot. Most of the arrows were spilt by the end, and the ones that weren’t were only off by inches, still well within the bullseye of the target’s forehead.

Sniper didn’t react to his own handiwork, his facial expression stayed neutral behind his sunglasses as he situated the second quiver on his back.

But before he started firing again, much to the Spy’s amazement, Sniper switched his bow to his left hand.

This time, he didn’t hit headshots every single time. He didn’t split nearly as many arrows on his way back either, and a few were even lost to the trees, but it was astoundingly iimpressive for someone who Spy knew wasn’t ambidextrous.

Spy’s self-awareness snapped back into place as he realized he’d been gawking at the Australian for a few solid minutes. He bruised himself with loading his handgun, trying to get his act together. Raising his revolver, he breathed and lined up his shot but could practically feel the eyes on him. He tried to block it out, and fired six times.

One shot clipped a wooden target at the elbow. Tragically, wasn’t the target he’d been _aiming_ at.

He lowered his weapon slowly, waiting for a laugh he knew he deserved, but it didn’t come.

He didn’t dare look at Sniper, fumbling instead to load another clip. He lined up again with the sights, far more focused on the man to his left than the target in front, and again didn’t hit anything six times.

The corner of his eye caught movement, and couldn't resist whipping his head towards it, prepared to defend his pride.

But the Sniper was walking toward a little weapon shed in the back of the range, seemingly still in a world of his own. He emerged seconds later with a small object in his hands, and headed toward the Spy without making eye contact, stopping at the target directly left of his.

He was carrying a crude handgun, one of the standard Mann Co. ones available for practice.

Spy blinked in surprise. Not only had Sniper chosen to come much closer, directly next to him in fact, but he was using a handgun? His bow was still leaning against the arena wall back where he’d set up before, why on earth would a Sniper need practice with a pistol? The marksman couldn’t bring a weapon like that on the field, they couldn’t use weapons outside of their array of class load-outs.

The Sniper took a shooting stance, feet shoulder width apart, both hands on the gun, and lined up his eye with the sights. With how fast the man had shot off his arrows, Spy was surprised it took him so long to do.

In fact, it took long enough for suspicion to bubble up in his gut. There was no doubt in his mind that Sniper could land a perfect shot with that handgun in less time then it took to sneeze. There was no way he actually needed practice with it, and he was clearly making the shot deliberately slow.

Spy’s eyes widened as he realized; the marksman was trying to help _him_.

The thought froze him up. There could be no other explanation for it, why else would Sniper have paused his practice to move closer or lined up a handgun at that pace?

They both knew Spy was far too proud to ask for help, even when he obviously needed it. Sniper was obviously aware that if he offered it outright, he’d achieve nothing but offending the Frenchman.

So he was trying to offer tips while letting the Spy keep his pride intact.

As he watched Sniper bury four shots into the target’s blank face (reloading quickly in between but slowing as he prepared to fire), Spy decided the least he could do was play along. Swallowing the last of his pride, Spy gripped his revolver and copied the bushman’s stance.

After checking back to make sure he had it right, Spy took his own six shots and missed them all again.

The bushman had reloaded the single bullet his pistol held instantly, but waited until spy was watching him again to line up. He made an obvious gesture of rolling back his shoulders and straightening his neck, then bouncing his knees to show they weren’t locked. He took a shot again with deadly accuracy, repeated the whole routine three more times, and left the plywood with rather little left of a head.

Spy copied the stance again, trying to relax his shoulders and neck this time, bounced his knees once to unlock them and fired. One bullet clipped the hip on the wooden man taunting him from the range, but he got the feeling it was just luck.

He glanced over to Sniper, ready to realize his mistake and copy the stance again, but instead gulped internally at the sight of Sniper walking towards him instead.

Spy straightened nervously, gripping his revolver as if Sniper might take it from his undeserving hands, but the marksman just nodded his head at the target. Spy blinked once before turning and taking the stance he’d observed.

He tensed a little when he felt Sniper’s hands on his biceps, but the touch was light and Spy let him guide his arms and shoulders to the correct position. Sniper’s movements were gentle and purposeful, and Spy found he didn’t mind it half as much as he would have thought.

“Loosen ya knees, mate,” Sniper mutter quietly from behind him. Spy swallowed dryly and did so.

“Good. Which is ya dominant eye?”

Spy turned his head slightly back to glance at him, found it brought their faces far too close, and quickly looked forward again. “I... I don’t know.”

Three words Spy _hated_ saying. Yet, they fell from his lips without permission. 

Snipers only visible reaction was a twitch of his eyebrow, but he grunted, shoved his pistol in his waistband and reached over to pluck the revolver from Spy’s grasp. Unsure what else to do, Spy’s fingers went slack and allowed him to take it.

The marksman made an O with his right hand, thumb meeting his fingers in a circle, and held it up in front of him.

“Right, make a circle like this, yeah?”

Confused, Spy nodded and made a circle of his own with his fingers.

“Put it up so when you look through, the target’s head’s in the middle of it.”

Spy turned and did so, realizing passively that this was the most he'd ever heard Sniper say. He hadn’t know the man’s voice was so deep, it was very appealing. He wished he heard it more often.

“Close ya left eye. He still in the circle?”

Spy closed his eye, cutting off his depth perception and shifting his line of sight. “Non.”

“That means ya left is dominant. If you close your right, his head’ll be back in the circle.”

Spy did so, and nodded his confirmation. “Oh, yes.”

“Great.” Sniper handed him back his revolver and, to the Frenchman’s surprise, rested his hands comfortably on Spy’s shoulders. Spy felt a warm exhale on the back of his neck, and tried not to shiver.

“Alright then, line up with ya left eye, mate.”

Spy raised his arms, feeling Sniper’s hands roll his shoulders back slightly as he did so. “Now, don’t dish out the whole clip yet. Just take one shot for me, yeah?”

Spy swallowed around the lump in this throat, held his breath, fired, and missed horribly.

Behind him, Sniper made a small hum of understanding. “Ah, see, you’re aiming more left than you gotta. And don’t tense up for the kickback like that, it ain’t gonna hurt ya. _Use_ the weapon mate, don’t fight it. Try again.”

Spy fought to keep his mind on Sniper’s words, but he felt sweaty and hot and like every nerve in his body was vibrating. He tightened his grip on the gun, unintentionally bringing Sniper’s attention to it.

“Oh, wait a mo. Grip’s off, don’t go crossin’ ya thumbs like that. Make a right mess of the shot.”

Spy quickly adjusted his grip, cursing himself inwardly for the slight tremor of his hands. Why was he so damned nervous? Few things made him truly nervous these days, especially not other people, but something about this strange bushman with his hushed tones and temperate demeanor was making him feel like he had someone to impress.

Sniper seemed satisfied, unaware of Spy’s internal struggle. “Much better. Take the shot then, mate.”

He missed again, but Sniper didn't get disappointed. He just patiently kept giving pointers between each shot as Spy made his way through the rest of the clip, and then continued through another, hands only leaving his shoulders to make small adjustments to the position of his arms. 

Spy was on the fifth bullet of the third clip, Sniper’s hand wide hands on his bicep and shoulder respectively. He took a breath through his nose and fired with confidence, trusting that he’d either make the shot or learn from his mistake, and was rewarded with a hole through the wooden figure’s chin.

Spy dropped his arms and stared at the hole, smile growing on his face. “Ouaits!! Finally, enfin!!” he cheered, turning towards Sniper with a grin.

And, for the first time in Spy’s personal experience, Sniper smiled back. 

He was surprised that seeing Sniper’s reserved and crooked little grin made his heart stutter and blood rush. Being rewarded with that smile made him feel better than actually hitting the target.

Sniper tilted his head proudly. “There you go, that’s the ticket! Now, do that four hundred more times, and then you can stop calling it luck,” he said with a wink.

Spy’s face fell, and Sniper laughed lightly. He gave the Frenchman a pat on the shoulder and started off towards his bow at the back of the arena, calling back as he walked.

“It’s lunch time spook, that’s enough for today. You’ll get the hang of it, don’t you worry. I’ll help ya start chippin away at that four hundred tomorrow, whatd’ya say?”

Spy watched Snipers back as he retrieved his bow, and decided he liked the idea of Sniper’s calm voice in his ear and precise hands on his shoulders, of seeing that crooked smile again and knowing that he had been the cause.

“Sounds like a deal, my friend. You have my thanks.”

Sniper waved off the gratitude, and together they headed out of the shooting range.

He wasn’t exactly sure why, but as the two walked side-by-side towards the base and he caught a glimpse of Sniper’s bright, mischievous eyes glancing his way from behind those shooting glasses, Spy couldn’t help but think that this was the beginning of something good.

**Author's Note:**

> The rest of my pieces for the event are digital art, you can find them on my tumbler at anonymous-astronaut ;)


End file.
